Write Who You Aren't

Thanks dude. Missing you out here. Hope you're hav­ing fun.

Interesting. I'd love to hear your story about that. I think mem­oir can be very other-focused–Down and Out was tech­ni­cally memoir–but mostly it's an excuse to talk about yourself.

Thanks August. You always bring an inter­est­ing perspective.

Thank you for shar­ing this, Katie. This are exactly the kind of sub­ject Orwell would have tack­led. I admire your brav­ery in being curi­ous about some­thing few peo­ple want to know very much about

Katie,
This was a great story. I liked how you human­ized her and helped me as a reader to sym­pa­thize with her plight. I hope you don’t mind, but I played around with this and wrote a com­pli­men­tary story from the per­spec­tive of her “John.” I, too, can­not imag­ine what must go through the mind of some­one who fre­quents pros­ti­tutes. This is my attempt to try — Tom

The John

He parks sev­eral blocks away in an area of the city he knows noth­ing about. He knows noth­ing about the city either, and he likes it that way. He’s a stranger here and he can come and go with­out fear of recog­ni­tion. At least, that is his hope.

The entrance of the brothel is unas­sum­ing and dimly lit. He takes a quick look both ways and walks in. He is greeted by a man who refuses eye con­tact and talks quickly, insert­ing gra­tu­itous pro­fan­ity often. The man takes his cut and points down the hall.

His breath­ing quick­ens with every step. His stom­ach churns with a sense of excite­ment and des­per­a­tion. It has finally come to this; pay­ing for love. No wait, it’s not love he wants, it’s sex. Perhaps it’s not even sex, maybe it’s just a pri­mal need for human con­tact, a touch.

His wife doesn’t under­stand his needs. She’s dis­tant and not the least bit inter­ested any­more. So he excuses him­self from any quilt. She refuses to sub­mit to his fan­tasies, so he decides to go shop­ping. Yes, a cus­tom designed fan­tasy pur­veyor is what he needs. She will ful­fill his porn-soaked deprav­ity. She has too. She’s get­ting paid.

He sees her on the bright stage, try­ing to look entic­ing, yet unas­sum­ing. She is sur­rounded by 15 other women, all of them for sale, or rent would prob­a­bly be more accu­rate. He gives her a nod and she moves towards him to make the deal.

He fol­lows her to her cubi­cle, like a rabid puppy crav­ing his mother’s bloody teat. He tells him­self he likes what he sees. As he enters through the cur­tain, he thinks to him­self, it’s a good thing she’s get­ting paid or she would be dis­gusted by me.